I lingered beside Horace’s borrowed car vacillating between going home and knocking on Mildred’s door to see what kind of reception Horace was getting. Discretion prevailed, though, and I turned toward home. I had no desire to be within wounding distance if Mildred dove under her bed after that shotgun again.
But I nearly jumped out of my skin when a motorcycle one street over backfired, then roared off toward town. I declare, I’d been in so many near-combat situations lately that I was beginning to suffer from one of those stress syndromes.
I forgot about that, though, and picked up my pace when I saw a familiar car parked at the curb in front of my house. Hurrying through the kitchen door, I was greeted by a hubbub of welcoming smiles and hugs and kisses, some of which I could’ve done without. Hazel Marie and Mr. Pickens were home.
“Oh, Miss Julia,” Hazel Marie said, her eyes shining with the wonder of it all, “you should’ve been with us. San Francisco was beautiful. The Golden Gate Bridge! The fog! The hills and the streetcars! I’ve never seen anything like it. You would love it. Oh, and I’ve got pictures. I took pictures of everything. I can’t wait to show you.”
“And I can’t wait to see them. You look wonderful, Hazel Marie.” And she did. Like a million dollars, in fact, which probably wasn’t too far off the mark. Whatever she and Mr. Pickens had been up to, it had done wonders for her complexion.
And speaking of whom, there he stood, one hand on a chair back, smiling complacently at Hazel Marie’s excitement.
“Well, Mr. Pickens,” I said, “thank you for getting her back safely. I hope you had a good time, too.”
Lillian broke in then, telling us to sit down, she was slicing a caramel cake.
“I wouldn’t turn that down,” Mr. Pickens said, then to me, “Yes, I had a good time and a successful one, too.”
“Oh, that’s the best thing,” Hazel Marie said, pulling out a chair. “That insurance company hired him! He’s on retainer, which means he can work for them and for himself, and he’ll be making a mint! I’m so proud.”
“Hardly a mint,” Mr. Pickens said with a deprecating shrug. But I could tell he was pleased with himself, probably for more than just getting hired. “Lillian, I’ve been missing your cooking.”
“Oh!” Hazel Marie hopped up from her chair. “Lloyd’ll be home any minute and I’ve got to get his presents out of the suitcase. I’ll be right back.”
“Latisha comin’ with him,” Lillian said. “I hope that’s all right.”
“Oh, good. I’ve got presents for her, too. For everybody, in fact.”
Lillian put the rest of the cake slices on the table, then followed her out. “She have them clothes strung all over the place, I don’t go right behind her.”
“Well, Mr. Pickens,” I said, picking up my fork and taking advantage of one of the few times I had him alone. “I guess now that you have regular employment, you’ll be making an honest woman of Hazel Marie.”
He glanced up over a forkful of cake halfway to his mouth, then put it down. “I’ve been thinking about that.”
“Don’t think too long, especially if you’re sitting there trying to think up some other delaying tactic. May I remind you that your last excuse of not wanting to live off Lloyd’s money from his father didn’t hold much water with me. That’s commendable of you, but it’s plain that you’re prospering now and it’s time to take the next step.” I gave a sharp nod of my head for punctuation. “And if you don’t know what that step is, I can certainly tell you.”
“My goodness,” he said, close to laughing at me, “you’re a little testy today. She may not have me. Have you thought of that?”
I snorted, but somewhat delicately, at the thought and waved my hand. Before I could finish my response, Lloyd and Latisha came through the door. Bookbags hit the floor and Lloyd said, “Last day of school! Hallelujah!” Then he saw Mr. Pickens and his face lit up. “Mama’s home? Where is she? Hey, J.D. Where’s Mama?”
Mr. Pickens stood up, offered his hand to the boy, then drew him close in a hug. “She’s upstairs unpacking a few presents. Well, actually, we had to buy another suitcase to bring them all home.” Lloyd started for the stairs, calling his mother, but Mr. Pickens said, “Wait, she’s bringing down some surprises.”
“She better hurry,” Lloyd said, beside himself with excitement. “I can’t wait to see her.”
Mr. Pickens laughed, then squatted down in front of Latisha. “Hey, little girl. Remember me?”
She ducked her beribboned head, smiled and gave him a flirtatious glance. “Maybe.”
Mr. Pickens clutched at his heart. “You’ve cut me to the quick, forgetting me like that. Get up here and have some cake. Maybe it’ll improve your memory.”
Latisha giggled. “I don’t forget you. I jus’ don’t want you to know it.”
Mr. Pickens’s eyebrows shot up as he looked at me. “They learn early, don’t they?”
When Hazel Marie and Lillian came back down, their arms were loaded with bags and boxes. After hugging and carrying on over Lloyd, Hazel Marie began handing out the gifts she’d brought. I’d never in my life seen so many T-shirts and miniature bridges and other odds and ends that constituted mementos of San Francisco.
“And this is for you,” she said, handing a small box to Latisha.
The child opened it and pulled out a trinket that made her eyes light up. Then she asked, “What is it?”
“It’s a snow globe,” Hazel Marie said. “See, you turn it over and snow falls on the Golden Gate Bridge.”
“Look at that, Great-Granny,” Latisha said, holding it out to Lillian. “I got me a little bridge inside a ball.”
As we all sat around the table, eating cake and talking over and around each other, Hazel Marie couldn’t keep her hands from Lloyd. She hugged him time and again, patted his hand, looked him over and, in general, displayed how much she’d missed him. Her obvious and ardent love of the child—hers and my first husband’s child, I might add—was the major redeeming factor in my ability to overlook what she’d done to get him. And then, gradually, her sweet nature and guileless heart endeared her to me for herself alone. I just wished she’d tamp down her attachment to Mr. Pickens long enough to rope him in. A cool head in such matters can be much more effective than an overheated heart.
Mr. Pickens, himself, broke into my reverie. “Where’s Sam?”
“Downtown, I guess, watching the desecration and destruction of our courthouse. He may even be protesting.”
“Oh,” Hazel Marie said, “are they really tearing it down?”
“Yes, they are,” I said. “Courtesy of Mr. Arthur Kessler. And I don’t think I’ll ever get over it, in spite of the fact that Sam tells me the courthouse isn’t worth saving. But as far as I’m concerned, being old and decrepit is no reason to put anything out of its misery.” Seeing the merriment in Mr. Pickens’s eyes, I quickly added, “I am not speaking personally, Mr. Pickens.”
“Didn’t enter my mind,” he said with a straight face. “So what else has happened since we’ve been gone?”
“Horace Allen’s home.”
“What!” Hazel Marie exclaimed, as Lillian’s mouth dropped open. “When? Where was he all this time?”
“I have no idea,” I said. “I just saw him go into the house a few minutes ago. For all I know, he may be back out again, depending on Mildred’s mood at the moment.”
After we’d discussed all the possible reasons for Horace’s mysterious absence, none of which were satisfactory, I told them of the barbecue soiree that would be held the following afternoon. “Everybody’s invited, and you’ll have your choice of an inside tea with finger sandwiches and entertainment by Tina Doland or a pig pickin’ in the yard with music by the Crooked River Boys.”
With a straight face, Mr. Pickens said, “I know which one I’m going to. I love finger sandwiches.”
Latisha, who’d been ignoring the conversation going on around her in favor of creating a snowstorm inside her globe, suddenly looked up. “Me, too,” she said. “Can I go? I wanta hear that woman sing, if that’s what she’s gonna do. I might could help her out.”
Lillian said, “Hush, chile.”
“Of course you may go,” I said. “You and your great-granny both. And from what I hear, Miss Tina could use some help. Now, Mr. Pickens,” I went on, turning to him, “you’re probably too tired from the rigors of your trip, but I understand that there’s to be an all-night party around the barbecue pits tonight. No finger sandwiches, but Sam’ll be there and you might enjoy it.”
After finishing the cake and hearing about the highlights of the trip—several times, in fact—everybody began to disperse into various parts of the house. Mr. Pickens left to check in at his office and to prepare for the men’s party that night.
“Miss Julia?” Lillian said, as we cleared the table. “Mr. Horace really come back home?”
“I saw him, Lillian, and talked with him, but I didn’t get much information. Just that he’s been involved in some way with Richard Stroud and he’s lost a lot of Mildred’s money. He was afraid to face her, and it must’ve taken every bit of his courage to get out of the car and go in. He was so pitiful-looking that I almost felt sorry for him. In spite of the fact that he brought it all on himself.” I leaned closer. “But, listen, it was him who tried to break into the house the night we were there. He wanted to get some clean clothes. Have you ever heard the like? All that trouble, plus getting shot at, just for a change of clothes.” I shook my head at the wonder of it. “Of course, he was always particular about the way he looked.”